by R. W. Peake
Now that there was no longer a reason to linger, I left for Pannonia, taking my household and my friends with me. I regret to say that for the others it was a somber journey, since I was in no mood for small talk, either by me or from others. In fact, I did not much want to hear the others talking among themselves either. Traveling north, we followed the coast, passing through Macedonia first, then Dalmatia. The country grew increasingly rugged and we rode with our hands on the hilts of our swords, spread out slightly in order to avoid being surprised. This was country perfectly suited for ambush, and the bandits of Dalmatia were well known. In fact, I hoped that some men would be stupid enough to try and attack our party, because I desperately needed the release of battle. Of all the people in our party, the one person I could not stand to be around was Iras, and I am afraid that I was very cruel to her, albeit only with words. I can look back now to see that she was as grief-stricken as I was, but at the time, I ignored the puffy and reddened eyes, the sudden bouts of weeping, and the rips in her clothing. Somehow, I convinced myself that she was secretly relieved that Miriam was gone and would escape at the first opportunity, so I ordered her legs shackled every night. This was not a popular order with anyone; even Agis made it clear that he did not believe she needed to be restrained, while Gaius thought to speak to me about it the first night before taking one look at my face and thinking better of it.
We made good progress, mainly because I was not interested in sightseeing, or in the feelings or condition of the others, and we reached Siscia less than four weeks after we left Nicopolis. We did stop at Salonae for a couple of days to rest the horses, giving me the opportunity to stock up on more wine, which I was drinking in large quantities every night when we stopped. It helped me sleep at night, but the next mornings were rough, in turn making the others’ lives equally miserable. Our first sight of Siscia came after we crossed the Dinarics, the range of low mountains that cut the coastal area off from the interior of Pannonia. Located at the confluence of three rivers, Siscia was a Roman city in name only, at least at that point, being more Pannonian than Roman. The walls were wooden, yet they were very stout and more than 20 feet high, with the houses and buildings similarly constructed. Streets were churned mud and crowded with newly arrived settlers, many of whom I recognized as recent retirees from the Legion. Several of them saluted, out of force of habit, which I returned for the same reason, but for the most part I ignored their calls as I rode by, not wanting to engage in talk that would inevitably lead to a topic I had no wish to discuss. When they had last seen me I had been married and expecting a child. Seeing these men so soon was a bitter reminder that was no longer the case. Many of the native buildings either had been torn down or were in varying stages of destruction to be replaced with those of a more Roman style.
We did not linger in the town, taking a quick look around before pushing through to the gate on the eastern side, following the road for about a mile before we came to the camp, discovering that what we had been told about the camp being hard up against the town walls was incorrect. In fact, it was built on the site of the original camp when Octavian had first campaigned here, with more permanent buildings being added over time. It was now a fully operational base, with a Praetorium made of brick, along with the quarters of the senior officers like me. We presented our orders at the gate and, because we were expected, we were waved through. Leaving Diocles, Iras, and Agis behind with the baggage and other slaves, the rest of us entered the Praetorium to report our presence formally. There was a Tribune of the broad stripe present, another of the eager and ambitious young men that passed through the command of the Legion, most of them having no more impact on the performance of a Legion than the way sticking a finger in a cup of wine does when it’s then pulled out. This young man seemed to be exceptionally haughty, which I was in no mood to endure, practically making it inevitable that there would be words exchanged.
“I see that your orders are dated more than a month ago,” he sniffed. “I didn't realize that it took so long to travel from Nicopolis.”
I heard Balbus mutter a curse behind me while I took a step closer to the Tribune, staring down at him, and he took an involuntary step back before he seemed to realize he was showing weakness. Tilting his chin up, his lips drew into a thin line as he mentally prepared himself to put me in my place. I do not believe that he was ready for what I said.
“Can you read, Tribune?” I asked him quietly, and his face flushed.
“Of course I can read, in Latin and Greek,” he snapped.
“Then perhaps you would be so kind as to read those orders again.” I switched to speaking Greek without a pause, clearly surprising him considerably.
Obviously reluctant, but unable to argue with what was a reasonable request, his eyes dropped to the scroll, scanning the text.
Pointing to a line, I said helpfully, “It’s that section that I think you might want to review.”
His brow furrowed as he tried to work the words out, which was understandable. Caesar’s practice of putting a dot over the last word of every sentence had been picked up by a number of others, yet it had not become standard practice, and the clerk who had written out my orders had not bothered with such a convenience. The Tribune read, then reread the sentence I had pointed out, but he still did not understand.
“I'm the Camp Prefect for the Army of Pannonia. That means that I'm second in command of this entire army, which means that I'm your superior officer, Tribune.”
“That's impossible,” he protested. “I'm the senior Tribune, and on my return to Rome I'll be a member of the Senate. No man from the ranks, no matter how highly placed he is, outranks me.”
“Not true,” a new voice interrupted. “And if you would spend more time reading the orders that come into the Praetorium instead of worrying about who was spending more time with me than you, you'd know that, Claudius.”
I turned to see a man not much older than the Tribune Claudius, but with an aura of ability and command that marked him as a natural leader. He was richly yet simply dressed, wearing a senatorial and a signet ring as his only jewelry. Without waiting, he strode over to me, offering his hand.
“And it's a great honor and privilege to welcome Titus Pullus as my second in command.”
I said nothing, not because I wanted to be rude, but because I did not know who the man was; my orders had not named the Legate. Seeing my hesitation, he provided an answer to the mystery.
“I am Marcus Licinius Crassus, Legate of the Army of Pannonia.”
That is how I met my new commanding officer, a man who very few have ever heard of despite his great deeds, and who always serves as a reminder of how dangerous it is to cross Octavian, even if it is unintended.
Marcus Crassus was the grandson of Caesar’s old colleague, and the son of Publius, who had perished at Carrhae with his father when Marcus was just a babe. Young Crassus was one of the wealthiest men in Rome thanks to his grandfather’s famous avarice, yet he carried the burden with ease. Our first meeting was suitably brief, since Crassus wanted me to settle in and rest before we talked army business. Tribune Claudius, who I learned was of a very minor branch of that famous family of the Claudii, had been suitably embarrassed, meaning for the next several days he made himself scarce whenever I was present. Scribonius and Balbus, as Evocati, were expected to find their own housing in town and as was always the case when the army settled into a spot, the rents were exorbitant for what was little better than a hovel, to hear the two tell it. Finally, I could endure their complaining no longer, offering them space in my quarters, which were spacious and even more luxurious than I had become accustomed to as Primus Pilus. I even had my own private bath in a small building just behind my living quarters. The villa had hypocaust heating, the first I had ever experienced as part of my living arrangements, but I was assured that the winters were suitably bitter to make it a requirement, not a luxury. While Scribonius and Balbus were settled, Gaius’ status was a little bit trickier. I lear
ned that the 8th was not actually stationed at Siscia, but was out on the frontier to the northeast, and while they were not under siege, the situation was tense.
“I'm afraid that if you were hoping for a peaceful assignment that you're going to be disappointed,” was how Crassus put it.
“I want nothing of the sort,” I replied.
He raised an eyebrow in surprise, looking at me intently, but I did not elaborate. I had no desire or intention of explaining my situation. After a moment, seeing that I was not going to say more, he continued.
“Are you familiar with the Bastarnae?” he asked me, and I shook my head.
“I’ve heard of them, but don’t know more than that.”
“Think of Scythians, but much meaner and wilder, and not as dependent on the horse as the Scythians. They’re from the area north of Thrace, and until recently, they’ve not been a problem. But they got greedy and they took advantage of the fact that we were occupied with the Dacians, and first they crossed the Ister River. They conquered that part of Moesia, namely the Triballi and the Dardani tribes, which frankly we didn't care about. Looking back, I think that was a mistake, because they took our reaction, or lack of it, as a sign of weakness. Recently, they crossed the Nisava. Are you familiar with that river?”
I thought for a moment, trying to recall what I had heard. I knew that it was important, that it formed some sort of boundary, but it was more of a guess when I ventured, “It’s part of the border of Thrace, isn't it?”
He nodded in confirmation.
“Correct. Specifically that part of Thrace that belongs to the Dentheleti.”
I shrugged, since the name of the tribe meant nothing to me.
“We have a treaty with Sitas, the king of the Dentheleti,” he said meaningfully.
That was when I understood the significance. During the civil wars, many of the kingdoms and territories that had some sort of treaty of friendship with Rome had suffered depredations of one sort or another at the hands of their enemies, namely because we were too occupied with our own troubles to offer the help that we were bound to by treaty. Most of these offenses had yet to be punished; Armenia came to mind, but first the Republic itself had to be set to rights. However, Crassus apparently had decided that the place to start was here, with these Bastarnae.
“Sitas is blind, and old, and I've met him,” Crassus said, like that explained why we were going to chastise the Bastarnae. “The 8th is the nearest to the area, and I've already sent orders for them to prepare to move into Moesia. I'll be joining them, and I'm hoping that you'll be at my side.”
“Where else would I be?”
I did not understand the statement, and I saw him hesitate so I nodded to him, encouraging him to be honest with me.
“It’s just that you’ve already had a full career, and you’ve seen more battle than almost any man left in not just this army, but any of the armies,” he explained. “And nobody would blame you, and I certainly wouldn't, if you chose to remain behind with the bulk of the army. In fact, in some ways it would make more sense for my second in command to remain behind.”
“General, I appreciate your concern,” I said firmly, “but I didn't come here to sit in my office. If you want me to go with you, I'm more than happy to do so. And I'm more than happy to wield a sword for Rome, despite my advanced and decrepit age.”
He chuckled at my heavy-handed attempt at humor, giving a small wave.
“Fair enough. I just wanted you to know that I wouldn't hold it against you if you chose to remain here.”
“I appreciate it, but that won't be necessary. So, when are we leaving?”
Since we would be heading to meet the 8th, I decided to bring Gaius, while Scribonius and Balbus made it clear that they would not be left behind to molder in the camp. Diocles came along as well; only Iras and Agis were left behind to finish getting things settled in. Watching Gaius and Iras cling to each other saying their goodbyes was painful to watch, the scene reminding me of happier times, which seemed like years ago and not just weeks. Joining Crassus and his staff, we were accompanied by an ala of cavalry as bodyguards, along with some ex-gladiators that apparently belonged to Crassus. This was my first opportunity to see the country we would be operating in firsthand while we followed the Sava River east. The roads were not of a high quality, meaning the going was not nearly as swift as it would have been if we had been on a good Roman road, yet it gave me time to examine not just the land, but the people and where they lived. It was an obviously poor country, with small farms where the inhabitants were barely scratching out an existence. Their huts were made of whatever materials were available, usually logs or even sticks, with mud in between to chink the cracks.
The people were thin; they were also a hardy people, and it was easy to read the hatred and anger in their eyes when we passed by, although they would look away when we turned to face them. My first impression was that these people were far from conquered and that it would be some time before they began to come around to the benefits of being part of Rome. The land itself was fertile, at least along the river valley, but it was clear that they did not have the same level of sophistication that we or even the Gauls possessed when it came to utilizing the land in the most efficient manner. Traffic on the road was light, composed mostly of men and women walking, carrying bundles of goods, although we did run into an occasional wagon. Interspersed every few miles were mean little villages, little better than a collection of huts and hovels, with small pens for pigs and goats attached and doorways cut into a wall for the animals to be brought into the house during the night. All in all, it was a depressing landscape and I did not understand why we considered this area to be a valuable addition to the lands of the Republic.
Because of the lack of civilization, we spent every night out in the open, and I have to say that I was impressed that Crassus did not insist on having his tent erected, since the weather was fair. I had noticed that he had traveled light for a man of his station, and the more time I spent with him, the more I liked him. We had yet to go into battle, which would be the real test, but to that point, I liked what I saw. He apparently felt the same about me, because we developed an easy rapport, talking about all manner of things. Since he had little memory of his grandfather, or his father for that matter, Crassus pumped me for information about them. There was not much I could tell him firsthand about his grandfather, but his father I was happy to talk about, remembering the popular young officer in Caesar’s army in Gaul. While it had been with the 7th Legion that Crassus had his famous exploits in Aquitania, I relayed what I remembered from the events, and most importantly, what we in the ranks thought of his father. Crassus seemed to appreciate how fondly his father was remembered and on more than one occasion, I thought I detected the glint of a tear in his eye as he listened to what I had to say. Scribonius and Balbus added their own recollections as well, so he knew that I was not just trying to flatter him by talking so well of his dead father. This was the manner in which we passed the miles, reaching the largest town in the region, Sirmium, which was supposedly named for the first king of the Triballi. Word of our progress had reached the people; consequently, there was a line of supplicants who wanted Crassus’ time to make a complaint or plea. I could not help noticing that when they thought it was to their advantage, the people were quick to avail themselves of our system of patronage and were eager to abide by our laws.
“I don’t have time to hear your pleas at this time, but when I return I will be happy to do so,” Crassus announced.
In an instant, the crowd, which had been docile to that point, turned ugly. They pressed in around us, making me thankful that we were still mounted, but in that moment we were cut off from both the cavalry and the gladiators, who had been too busy leering at the women to pay attention to their job. Men were shouting at us, some of them in heavily accented Latin, most in their own tongue, while others were shaking their fists at us. It was a confused mess and while I was not particularly worried, I
saw that it was nevertheless a dangerous situation. Suddenly, one of the men reached out to grab Crassus’ horse’s bridle. Before I formed the conscious thought, I had drawn my sword and in one quick stroke, severed the arm of the man who had grabbed the bridle. Just as quickly, all movement and sound stopped, everyone frozen in astonishment at the sight of the man standing there, a puzzled look on his face as he stared down at his arm lying in the mud at his feet, all while the stump of his arm spurted blood into the face of the man standing next to him. Taking advantage of the momentary paralysis, I wheeled Ocelus around, calling to Crassus to follow while using my horse’s big body to shove people aside. Crassus seemed every bit as astonished as the crowd, but knowing that the spell would not last, I called to Scribonius, who was nearest to Crassus.
